


words, words, words.

by Combeferre



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Writer's Retreat, Dysfunctional Soulmate Relationship, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mild Drugs, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-17 22:04:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2324777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Combeferre/pseuds/Combeferre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Title from Hamlet, Act II, Scene II, Line 83.)</p><p>"“I don’t doubt it,” Combeferre replied quietly, before raising his voice again. “Have you got any other guests?”<br/>“Just one. Have you heard of Jean de Courfeyrac?”<br/>A shout came echoing over the yard, presumably from the other guest, who seemed to have overheard them.<br/>“It’s just Jean Courfeyrac!”"</p><p>Courfeyrac, a tired journalist from the inner city, and Combeferre, a poet trying to make in a world that's against him, both check into Jehan's writing retreat, the Musain. Nobody really expects what happens next.</p><p>(Or, in which Jehan grows cannabis, people get lost and nobody knows why Grantaire finished that one night being arrested in half a dinosaur onesie.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i

“Welcome to The Musain, the premier writing retreat in Worcestershire!”

A tiny man came springing out from behind a pair of bins as Courfeyrac climbed out of the taxi, frowning. This certainly looked nothing like described on the website, but he decided to be polite and introduce himself anyway, reaching behind him to pull out the woefully inappropriate suitcase of clothes he’d brought with him. “You must be Jean-Prouvaire?”

“Oh, please, call me Jehan!” The man beamed, pushing the sleeves of his knitted jumper back. “I’ll get you settled in right away, shall I?”

“Please. It’s been a long journey.” Struggling awkwardly with his bags, Courfeyrac eventually managed to hold out a hand. “Hi, I’m Courfeyrac.”

“Good to meet you, Courfeyrac. Do you mind if I call you Courf?” Jean-Prouvaire – Jehan – giggled. “I’ll take you up to your room, and then take you on a little tour if you’d like. You’re in the Owlery.” The pair of them set off across what could only really be described as a farmyard, Courfeyrac thanking heaven that he’d worn boots instead of brogues. “So, you’re a City slicker, right?”

“From SW1,” Courfeyrac replied automatically. “This is a big change for me.”

“And you’re a…journalist? Biographer?” When Courfeyrac looked at him curiously, Jehan shrugged. “I like trying to guess.”

Courfeyrac couldn’t help but smile. “Journalist, but I’m taking a sabbatical to write a novel.”

“Awesome!” They’d arrived at a stone building that looked like it was about to fall down any second. Shoving at the barn-door entrance, Jehan led the way in, and Courfeyrac followed a little dubiously to find a spacious and well-modernised set of rooms. They were a little dark, but that was nothing that couldn’t be rectified with a little electricity. Dumping his bags with a sigh, he looked around a little as Jehan wandered through the apartment, turning on lights and opening doors.

“So, you have bedroom, bathroom and study,” Jehan shouted from what was, presumably, the bedroom. “Breakfast from seven until nine, lunch at one and dinner at seven, and snacks any time if you need them. There’s a kettle and tea and coffee stuff in the study.”

“Great!” Courfeyrac shouted back, shrugging off his coat and hanging it over the door. “Um, would you mind if I had the tour later? I probably need a nap.”

Jehan reappeared, smiling vaguely and holding what looked like a glass with a moth in it. “That’s fine. When you need me, dial 01 on the internal phone.” When Courfeyrac looked at him questioningly, Jehan motioned towards an old-fashioned wired phone that hung on the wall. “I’ll come and give you a look around and then we can have some food.”

“Do you have any other guests?” Courfeyrac asked quickly, before Jehan could leave.

“None at the moment, but there’s a new person arriving tomorrow morning.” Jehan frowned. “I can’t remember his name, but he’s staying across the yard in The Stables.” Pushing the door open, he turned to face Courfeyrac. “I’ll see you in a bit, yeah?”

“Sure.” As soon as his host had gone, Courfeyrac yawned and wandered through to the bedroom, falling flat on his face on the bed. It had been a six hour journey, counting the three-hour delay at the airport, and he was _tired._ Tugging his shirt back down over his tattoo, which irritated the hell out of him – what was the point of having one if you couldn’t properly see it, except with the aid of a strategically used mirror? – he fell asleep immediately with his head buried in the scented pillows.

He was awake again by five, as darkness began to fall across the countryside outside his window. Shaking his head, he stood up and went wandering over to the phone, dialling 01 and yawning like a cat as he considered his options. It had been his agent’s idea to book onto a retreat for a few weeks – Courfeyrac had never truly been cut out for city life, and had been getting steadily more and more worn down, so a break in the country had seemed like a good idea. But now he was here, and the place was essentially a run-down farm. Great.

Jehan answered on the fifth ring. “Good evening, Courf! Shall I come and get you?”

“Sure,” Courfeyrac replied. “I’ll see you in a second.” Putting the phone back down, he rummaged through his bag for his wellies, and was just pulling them on when Jehan reappeared.

“Good sleep?” the host asked affably, pulling the door open for Courfeyrac and smiling when he nodded. “Great. Well, this is The Musain.” Spreading his arms, he invited Courfeyrac to contemplate the mixture of mud and grass that awaited him. “I’ll take you around the farm first, shall I?”

“Is it just you running this place?” Courfeyrac asked as Jehan led him past what seemed to be a converted pigsty. “You’ve…certainly done a good job.”

“My grandfather was a bit of a rich bourgeoisie, and I inherited a load of money from him when he died, presumably from someone murdering him.” When Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow, Jehan crossed his arms defensively. “What? He was a dick. But, all credit to him, he financed this place, so I’m in no position to be rude.” Turning right, Jehan pointed out the septic tank, which looked disturbingly rusty to Courfeyrac, a few disconsolate sheep cropping grass in a field, a signpost that promised a series of walks through the countryside and another accommodation block called The Priory, which Jehan insisted was haunted. “It’s my grandmother’s ghost. She was almost as bad as my grandfather. I let it out to all the horror writers, they seem to like the atmosphere.”

“So, this is the Stables?” Courfeyrac asked, changing the subject abruptly as they walked past a room that seemed to be occupied. “Didn’t you say the other guy was coming tomorrow?”

“Oh, no, that’s just Feuilly.” Jehan seemed quite unperturbed. “He does some of the maintenance work for me. We went to high school together and I used to beat people up for making fun of him, so he helps out sometimes.”

Courfeyrac snorted. “You beat people up?”

“I’m feisty,” Jehan replied simply, “and I have strong thighs.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Courfeyrac said. “And, this is the main house, I’m guessing?”

“Yep. It’s where I live, and I occasionally let out the attic rooms if there’s high demand.” Jehan pushed his own door open. “Come in, we’ll have dinner now if you want. I’ll just go and fetch Feuilly. Can you drain the pasta, please?”

“Sure.” Courfeyrac somehow pushed his way to the stove, his path obscured by the masses of pot plants that lined the hallway and kitchen, before deftly draining the pasta into the sink. As he looked up, he spotted a pot plant above the drying rack that looked faintly familiar.

“Cannabis,” he muttered to himself distractedly. “This guy’s growing weed in his kitchen. This is like the first episode of Breaking Bad. I’m never going to arrive back in London.”

“I didn’t know you liked it here so much!” Courfeyrac almost dropped the pasta at the sound of Jehan’s sudden entrance, and turned around quickly before the man could see him staring at the weed. Jehan was standing beside a short ginger man with thick-framed glasses and plenty of freckles, who had in tow an enormous, pugilistic figure with a buzzcut and a pink shirt that read “follow the spiders.” Before Courfeyrac could even comprehend this sight, Jehan had grabbed the pasta off him and set it on the table, along with a frying pan full of sauce and some oddly-coloured vegetables, motioning at Courfeyrac to sit down.

The two other men took their seats, introducing themselves as they sat down. “I’m Feuilly, I guess,” the ginger one said, smiling. “How are you?”

“I am good, thanks.” Courfeyrac returned the man’s handshake. “And you are?” he asked, turning to the larger man.

“Bahorel. And if you say _anything_ about the t-shirt, I will fuck you up.”

“He lost a bet,” Jehan piped cheerily from the countertop, where he was sitting, grating cheese.

“What was it?” Courfeyrac asked, already at home among the three men. “Was it a good one?”

“It was an excellent one.” Feuilly smirked. “Let’s say that we – and a couple of guys from the village – were, ahem, inebriated one evening and we decided to go and stand – did you see a pub called the Green Dragon a few miles up the road?”

Courfeyrac nodded. “I had it earmarked as a spot for a pint.”

“Well, we decided to stand outside it, and take turns trying to get cars to flash or honk. Whoever didn’t get honked after an hour had to wear the shirt.”

“That’s a pretty tame punishment,” Courfeyrac replied, to which Feuilly nodded. “What did you do to avoid the shirt?”

“Windmilled,” Feuilly answered simply. “It was this blonde girl in a red Focus.”

“Windmilled? What does – oh god, I’m not even going to ask.” Courfeyrac covered his face with his hands. The countryside seemed tame at first, but he was becoming more and more convinced that everyone out here was on drugs as each moment passed.

Dumping the bowl of cheese on the table, Jehan joined them, serving out the pasta and sauce. “Dig in. We’re going out to the pub tonight, so this might be the last square meal you see for a while. There’s snacks and stuff in the pantry if you’re hungry – unless you want to join us?”

“Why not?” Courfeyrac replied, to delighted grins from the assembled men, who were beginning to eat hungrily. “It could be fun.”

Five hours later, he staggered back into the Wheelhouse with a traffic cone on his head. His last rational thought before he passed out was “that was no fun whatsoever.”

 

**oo**

As soon as Combeferre’s car pulled up outside The Musain, his first instinct was to just quietly direct the cab back towards the station. This place was a dump. No, worse than a dump – it was a _farm._ Silently cursing, he dragged his holdall out of the boot, and waved to the taxi driver as the man drove off without a second glance. Brendan had promised him a luxury retreat so that he could finish his next book, not a fucking _cowshed._

Sighing, he stomped towards what looked like the main house and rang the doorbell insistently, hearing a merry piped version of the _Blue Peter_ theme tune inside as a light flicked on upstairs. Eventually, the door opened, and he was presented with what looked like an elf nursing a hangover.

“Who’re you?” the elf asked blearily, peering up at Combeferre, who must have looked ridiculous in his knitted jumper.

“Um, Combeferre?” Combeferre held out his booking papers. “I’m a bit early, I know, but my train was ahead of schedule so I’m here now.”

“Combeferre?” There was a spark of recognition in the man’s face. “Combeferre! I’m Jehan, and welcome to the Musain, the premier writing retreat in Worcestershire?”

“It doesn’t look particularly premier to me,” Combeferre muttered, partially to himself. If Jehan picked up on it, he made no sign of it, instead taking hold of Combeferre’s suitcase.

“I’ll take you out to the Stables,” he piped cheerfully, dragging the heavy wheel-along out into the yard like it was nothing.

Combeferre followed. “You’re putting me in with the horses?”

“No, it’s a conversion, very modern. I’m sure you’ll be comfy in there.”

“Okay.” Combeferre still had his doubts, but those all cleared when he was shown the fairly new conversion that was the stables. Dumping his bags on the table, he went wondering through the rooms while Jehan turned the lights on. “Is there hot water?” he asked, no longer sure of Brendan’s assertions that he would have every creature comfort.

“Of course!” Jehan shouted back. “We’re not living in the dark ages out here!”

“I don’t doubt it,” Combeferre replied quietly, before raising his voice again. “Have you got any other guests?”

“Just one. Have you heard of Jean de Courfeyrac?”

A shout came echoing over the yard, presumably from the other guest, who seemed to have overheard them.

“ _It’s just Jean Courfeyrac!”_

“I have heard of him, yes,” Combeferre said hurriedly to prevent the obviously irate author from getting angrier. “I’m guessing that that’s him over there.”

“It is indeed. I wouldn’t approach him for the moment, though – he had quite a heavy one last night.” Having lit up the rooms and tidied away a couple of plants, Jehan turned to face Combeferre. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Sure.” Combeferre, after all, didn’t really have anything else to do. As they passed the Wheelhouse on their way to the main house, Jehan hit the stable door violently. “Courf, tea?”

“I’m coming in in a moment!” Courfeyrac yelled from the inside. Combeferre couldn’t see into the room, it was so dark.

Jehan led Combeferre back to the door and pushed it open. In the kitchen, there was already a short ginger man and a tall dark man drinking tea out of floral china cups, who Jehan introduced as “Feuilly and Bahorel, both of whom are very hungover.” Within a couple of minutes, the pair of them had disappeared to get back to their houses in the village, having threatened to kill Jehan if he ever dragged them out again. Beaming, Jehan spun around. “Can you whack the kettle on for me? I’d better go and milk Alice.”

“Milk – I’m not even going to ask,” Combeferre replied faintly, collecting the kettle off the counter as Jehan left the room, and taking it to the sink to fill it. Looking up to take in some of his surroundings, he noticed a very familiar potted plant on a shelf, just as a clatter sounded by the door and someone stumbled into the kitchen, presumably Jehan. Without looking, he turned around. “Is that cannabis above the sink?”

“Well, it’s certainly not herbs.” An unfamiliar voice replied, and Combeferre looked up properly to see Courfeyrac gaping at him, and he knew he’d be gaping back.

Courfeyrac was short, with skin the colour of burnt toffee and raven-black hair that seemed to stick up in all the wrong places. He had freckles across the back of his hands and neck, and his nose wrinkled at some smell that Combeferre couldn’t place.

Slowly, the other man turned around and pulled up his shirt slightly to reveal the words, “ _Is that cannabis above the sink?”_ tattooed to the left of the base of his spine.


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens.
> 
> (Or, idiots get lost, things are patched up and the mystery develops.)

“There’s no need for sarcasm,” Combeferre responded slowly, unsure of how to react. “I was asking a simple question.”

“Is that – “ Courfeyrac started, moving back a couple of steps. “Are we soulmates?”

Combeferre suddenly reconsidered his options. He’d never agreed with the concept of soulmates, having been an activist for years in his youth against forced marriage in Soulmate culture. And now, he was supposed to simply fall for this man he’d only just met, with no preamble, no conversation?

So he replied, “I don’t have a tattoo. So, no.”

“What?” Courfeyrac’s mouth fell open. “You mean, I’m going to meet someone else in my life that happens to ask me if there’s a cannabis plant above the sink? I’m sorry man, but that’s fucked up.”

Combeferre knew that he was lying, but the words still hurt him. “I don’t like to be called that. I’m not broken. I just- I’ve just never had one. I like it that way.”

Courfeyrac sat down heavily at the table. “Shit. You nearly gave me the fright of my life.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions!” Combeferre returned irritably, filling up the kettle as he did so. “It’s implicit in this culture that people believe they have to follow their tattoos. Do you not realise how fucked-up that is? Effectively, our freedom of choice in love has been completely suppressed!”

“And you’re the rebel? The special snowflake?” Courfeyrac’s eyes bored into him. “Sorry, Combeferre, but you need to catch up with the real world. Fate wins every time.”

Slamming the kettle onto its base and flicking it on, Combeferre swivelled to glare at Courfeyrac. “Whatever I am, I’m fine just like it.”

“Fine.” Courfeyrac sighed deeply and held out a hand. “Truce?”

After considering for a moment, Combeferre took it and shook it slowly, considering Courfeyrac over the top of his glasses. “Truce, for now.”

This was not at all going the way that he had planned.

Jehan came bumbling back in, holding what looked like a peanut-butter tub full of milk. “I have it! Is the kettle nearly done, Combeferre.”

“Getting there.” The unease between the two men was broken. “So, what sort of place is this?”

“It’s a semi-working farm.” Jehan seemed proud of that fact, beaming as he sat down. “We have sheep and a couple of cows out the back, and I sell the fleece and sometimes milk if I need the money. But I don’t often – people like coming here.”

“It seems to be fairly popular in writing circles,” Combeferre said, taking a sip of newly-made tea. “You’ve got a nice place set up.”

“It’s not _nice,_ as such – I think it has character.” Jehan pushed a mug over to Courfeyrac, who was still staring at Combeferre like he’d sprouted three heads. “What happened while I was gone?”

Combeferre was about to tell Jehan when Courfeyrac jumped in with a simple, “we were admiring your cannabis plant.”

“Ah, yes!” Standing up, Jehan wandered over to the sink and plucked a couple of leaves off the plant, holding them out to the two men. “It’s good quality, that.”

Combeferre took his leaf gingerly. “You know that this is illegal, right?”

“Law can’t catch me. It’s one pot plant in my kitchen, not a greenhouse full of them.” Jehan smiled. “Plus, I don’t smoke it. I occasionally find some leaves missing where residents have nicked some, but I’m not knowingly supplying it so it’s not my fault.”

"Actually, I'm fairly sure that -" Combeferre began, but Courfeyrac interrupted.

"That's the spirit!" he said loudly, waving his small leaf in the air. "Now, I'm going to go and do some writer-y things. I shall see you all at luncheon."

“Luncheo- Courfeyrac, _you bring that cannabis back or so help me –“_ Combeferre yelled, standing up as Courfeyrac went waltzing out of the room. “Jesus Christ. Can you believe him?” He looked despairingly at Jehan, who shook his head, smiling.

“You two will be okay. Go and do some work, now.”

“Fine.” Taking the mug of tea with him, Combeferre marched out of the kitchen and turned right towards The Stables, on the verge of muttering to himself. He needed to get some work done. When he’d finished, he’d feel better.

 

**oo**

Courfeyrac, after many minutes of deliberation, slowly let his head fall to the table. He wasn’t going to get any writing done today. The sci-fi novel was supposed to be a break, yet he was finding it far more distressing than any column he’d ever written. He needed to go outside.

Taking his coat off the peg, he locked the door to the Owlery and stomped over to the notice-board, where Jehan helpfully pinned maps of local footpaths for his guests. Taking one down without even looking at the route, he glanced over to the Stables, where a light was still on, and contemplated asking him to join him. But that morning had made it weird between them, and no wonder.

He didn’t notice that one of the maps was already missing.

 

**oo**

Combeferre was struggling. He’d always prided himself on being a rational thinker and pretty intelligent to boot, but this map was like a labyrinth.

“There is no small rock formation to my north-east side!” he shouted at the paper as the wind whipped around him. He’d been on this little hill-top for nearly half an hour, and the clouds that seemed to be a penchant of the area had descended.

There was no doubt about it. He was lost. Taking out his phone, he considered calling for help – surely this qualified as an emergency? – but nothing. No signal. Groaning in frustration, he pocketed the phone again and buried himself in the map.

His consternation was disturbed by the sound of footprints coming towards him though the mist. “Hello?” he shouted, aware that the wind was picking up again. “Hello?”

“ _Combeferre?”_ someone shouted back, apparently much further away than Combeferre had thought. “ _Is that you?”_

“Courfeyrac?” Combeferre was confused. The light in the Owlery had been on when he’d left, and surely he would have noticed Courfeyrac coming after him. He’d left the lights in the Stables on because he’d thought he was only going to be out for half an hour.

Yeah, right.

“Combeferre!” Courfeyrac suddenly came bursting out of the mist, bundled up in what looked like three scarves and a jacket. “Are you alright?”

“I am alright.” A sudden gust of wind whipped the map out of his hands, and Combeferre watched it mournfully as it spun off into the distance. “No, screw that. I’m lost.”

Courfeyrac nodded, as if all that was par for the course. “Well, it looks like our only option is to walk together.”

“I can suffer that for a while.” Combeferre allowed himself the briefest of smiles. “Have you been following me?”

“Not intentionally, but I saw someone up here – I thought it might be Jehan.” Courfeyrac grinned almost apologetically. “Sorry about this morning, by the way. I was rude.”

“I was ruder.” Combeferre could see that now. “I’m sorry as well. We definitely got off on the wrong foot there.”

“So let’s start again.” Courfeyrac’s cheeks were turning a dark pink as they walked along. “Hi, I’m Courfeyrac. Jean Courfeyrac. If you ever call me Jean _de_ Courfeyrac, I’ll have you murdered.”

“And, in a place like this, they’d never find the body.” Combeferre gestured at the hill, scattered with rocks and trees. “Go on.”

“I’m writing a science-fiction novel, but I normally write for the _Metro._ Just shitty columns, you know?” He sighed deeply. “This is supposedly a break.”

“I know the feeling,” Combeferre said, sighing. “Well, I’m Marc Combeferre, I’ve just finished my first book and I’m hiding out here until I feel sane again. The city just, you kno-“

“-gets to you?” Courfeyrac interrupted. “I know. That’s why I came out here. How long are you here for?”

“Two weeks.” Combeferre wasn’t looking forward to this at all. “And you.”

“The same.” Courfeyrac turned to him. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr Combeferre.”

“And you, Mr _de_ Courfeyrac.” Courfeyrac made as if to hit him, but instead grabbed his hand to shake it, and, as he did, the clouds cleared to let the sunlight that had been threatening all morning burst through, and Combeferre suddenly realised he had been on the right path all along.

 

**oo**

When the pair arrived back at the Musain, it was past lunchtime, but Jehan had left them out some bread, cheese and ham on the table, which they ate sitting next to each other while trading stories.

“And then he fucking took hold of my laptop and threw it out of the window!” Courfeyrac said, scowling, as Combeferre howled with laughter. “And that’s why I don’t have _that_ agent anymore.” He dolefully nudged Combeferre as the other writer continued to giggle. “It was a good laptop. I wrote my first column on that laptop.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh.” Combeferre swallowed and almost began again, but managed to restrain it. “I’m afraid my stories aren’t quite that good. Once, I had a friend who climbed to the top of the Clock Tower in George Square in Glasgow after at least seven shots of tequila, but that’s not very interesting.”

“Did he, by any chance, end the evening being arrested while wearing half a dinosaur onesie?” Courfeyrac asked suspiciously.

“No. No. What the – why?” Combeferre asked curiously. “Do you also have a friend who climbed to the top of the Clock Tower in George Square in Glasgow after at least seven shots of tequila? R never told me what happened after that, so I just assumed he’d come back to the halls and passed out.”

“Wait. Were you at Glasgow?” Courfeyrac asked, a strange glint in his eye. “And was your friend Grantaire?”

“No fucking way!” Combeferre replied excitedly, his cheeks reddening. “That’s so strange!”

“Who knew? Who fucking knew?” Both of them were getting way too excited about this, but it wasn’t the time to care. “Do you remember when -?”

And so they whiled a couple of hours away talking about the legendary exploits of their mutual friends at uni – _“Bossuet! Oh, what a guy. Did he ever tell you the woodburner story?” "And how about Marius sniffing Cosette's dad's handkerchief?"–_ until Combeferre reluctantly pushed his chair back and stood up, just as Courfeyrac, with dancing eyes and his dark hair dishevelled as he’d pushed it back, finished telling one of his stories about a man called Joly who Combeferre had had lectures with but never really talked to.

And he knew that he really, really didn’t want to leave, but he had a responsibility to use this trip to write, so that’s what he was going to do.

“I have to go. Writing and…things.” Fuck. Unsteadily, he took his plate and mug back to the sink and started washing them up. “You probably have some work to do as well.”

“I do.” Was he imagining it, or was there a hint of disappointment in Courfeyrac’s voice? “We’d better get back to it. Making the most of our time, as it were.”

Combeferre turned to see Courfeyrac still sitting at the table, and, trying to make things less awkward, exclaimed “Dinner! I’ll see you at dinner.” Courfeyrac turned around and smiled, and it was the best thing that Combeferre had ever seen.

“Yeah. Dinner.”

Combeferre just made it out of the kitchen without blushing, and went stomping back over to the Stables, saying “fuck, fuck, fuck” in his head with every step.

Because he was fairly sure that he had managed, in the course of a single morning, to fall in love with Courfeyrac.


	3. iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People have dinner and a new guest arrives.

Courfeyrac managed to unlock the door to the Owlery, hang up his jacket, turn the lights on, put the kettle on, put a teabag in a mug and open his laptop before letting out the loudest “ _holy mother of fuck”_ he had ever said and collapsing onto the bed.

Not only had he found the man who was, in every likelihood, his soulmate, but he also had the mother of all crushes on the guy. Combeferre was cute. He liked cats. He could talk for hours about his friends and his family and never once say a bad thing about any of them. He was a writer – a freaking _poet_. And, did he mention that, going past the stage of _cute,_ that Combeferre was actually immensely _hot?_ And those _hands…_

“Jesus fucking Christ _almighty,”_ Courfeyrac moaned, burying his head in the pillow. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He had been supposed to write a good portion of his book and then leave without any extra baggage. He wasn’t supposed to get a _soulmate_ out of his sabbatical.

A knock on the door roused him from his stupor. Checking his hair in the mirror, he answered it with trepidation to find Jehan standing on the doorstep, cheerful in a stripy knitted cardigan.

“Did you guys find the lunch okay?” the host asked before Courfeyrac could even speak. “I’d made you a cottage pie but I thought you might be…lost…so I just left you some cheese and stuff and we can have the pie tonight if you’d like. What I mean to say is that – _you –_ can have the pie tonight, because I have to, um, go out.”

“Really?” Courfeyrac asked, almost annoyed at Jehan’s stutter. “Where?”

“Um, Feuilly has – a girlfriend! He has a girlfriend, and we’re all going to meet her at the pub tonight.” Jehan was – blushing?

“Oh, really?” Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow. “Can I come too? It’ll be nice to see the lads again.”

Poor Jehan looked terrified. “Um, don’t you want to stay in? You had a, um, bit of a heavy one last night, and I daresay tonight will be even worse.”

“You’re right,” Courfeyrac said thoughtfully, catching onto Jehan’s game. “Maybe I will stay in.”

“Okay. Well, I’ll leave the pie in the bottom oven, just get it out when you’re ready.”

“Sorry we were late for lunch!” Courfeyrac called, as Jehan started to wander towards the Stables, presumably to tell Combeferre the same.

“Oh, don’t worry! There’s a new guest arriving tomorrow anyway, so I had to make up the Priory for him.” Jehan gesticulated in the vague direction of the stone building, where a light blazed from the windows. “Feuilly’s in there now, removing the spiders.” Sure enough, a distant shriek was heard emanating from the window.

“Well, I’ll see you later.” Jehan raised his hand and grinned in acknowledgement. Against his better judgement, Courfeyrac waited for a few moments by the open door – just long enough to see Combeferre opening his door over the yard – before shutting it quickly.

Combeferre, meanwhile, was frowning. “I’m really sorry, Jehan. Is there anything I can do?”

“No, I’m going up there tonight.” The man’s lip trembled. “I should be back by morning, but Feuilly will look after you if I’m not.”

“Take all the time you need. Your mother is ill.” Combeferre felt almost ashamed for initially not believing the host now. “Best wishes to her and everything.”

“Thank you. Feuilly will be here if you need anything.” Jehan paused for a second before leaving. “Good luck with the, um, writing.”

“Thank you?” Combeferre called after him as Jehan went back across the yard to the farmhouse, before shutting the door. Poor Jehan. Whoever the person coming tomorrow was, they were going to arrive to chaos.

Returning to his computer, he read over the last few lines he’d written.

_“Progress as you’re meant to progress,_

_life wheels turning over and over, spun_

_with rough hands under the baking sun –“_

Sighing, he kneaded his forehead with his fingers. This was the latest poem he’d been working on in his collection on conflict, but he couldn’t find the words. Should it rhyme? He liked what he had, but he didn’t know. Sometimes the words didn’t come naturally to him like they should do.

 

Instead, he switched the screen to another project – a vanity project, he liked to call it – in which he was trying to write in iambic pentameter.

 

_“When we heard that our attack had fallen_

_he sang me rivers in my lullabies_

_wrapped his arms around my sunken chest_

_muscle on wasted muscle as we slept.”_

Oh, fuck.

 

 

**oo**

“ _This is not a date,”_ Courfeyrac told himself firmly in the mirror as he brushed his hair back for the final time. “This is just circumstance. Not a date. Definitely not a date.”

 

So why was he making such an effort? Why had he washed his wellies? Why had he ironed his _t-shirt,_ for gods sake?

 

“Come on, Courfeyrac,” he begged himself. “Don’t fuck this one up.”

 

And why wouldn’t he? He was twenty-five and he’d never been one to stick with the whole saving-youself-for-your-soulmate thing. He’d had girlfriends and boyfriends over the years, all of whom had faded from his life for one reason or another.

 

He was already certain that he couldn’t let that happen to Combeferre.

 

Across the line, Combeferre was doing something similar, but was simply pacing up and down while giving himself a pep talk.

 

“It’s not a date. It’s not a date. Courfeyrac probably doesn’t even feel the same way, not after you were so rude this morning. And it’s _definitely not a date.”_ And yet Combeferre still felt the absence of his tattoo keenly, wishing, almost, that there was a way he could know for sure whether this guy was – well, the one guy.

 

Because he _could be._ Courfeyrac was smart and funny and sweet, and had dark hair that had to be pushed out of his face every few minutes, and clothes that smelled like sugar and wool. Courfeyrac could talk – boy, could he talk, _more_ than making up for the long pauses that Combeferre left when he didn’t quite know what to say.

 

And Courfeyrac had Combeferre’s first words to him tattooed on his body.

 

And, if you asked Combeferre, despite all of the beliefs he’d had before, that was something pretty major.

 

When he arrived in the kitchen, Courfeyrac was already there, peering into the bottom oven. “Evening!” he said brightly as the door shut behind Combeferre, without turning around. “This looks good, actually. Really good.” He started to stand up and turn. “I’m just hoping that there’s no weed in here or anything, otherwise tonight is going to be –“ Turning, the words suddenly dried up in his throat, and he couldn’t force out the word _weird_ because _Jesus fucking Christ,_ Combeferre was wearing skinny jeans and a green jumper and his hair looked all feathery and _Jesus fucking Christ, Courfeyrac wasn’t at all prepared for this._

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he continued hurriedly, “Anyway, have a seat. I’ll plate up,” turning around before Combeferre could see the rising blush on his cheeks. For God’s sake. _This was not a date._

Combeferre shook off his boots and, instead of sitting down, began roaming around the kitchen. “It’s a nice place, this. Jehan’s made it really comfortable.”

 

“Uh-huh. Despite the illegal drugs on the windowsill.” Courfeyrac was trying his very best to keep his tone light. “They slightly mar the effect.”

 

“They do,” Combeferre replied thoughtfully. “They add a bit of an edge to the place, though. Keeps the room interesting.”

 

“Interesting. Right.” Courfeyrac’s hands were shaking as he took the dish of pie out of the oven. Combeferre had to admit that it looked delicious, despite his general aversion to stodgy food. “Can you get the cutlery?”

 

That turned out to be an awkward idea. In order to reach the cutlery door, Combeferre had to reach past Courfeyrac and grab at the handle, and was it Courfeyrac’s imagination or did the poet get a little closer to him than he really needed to?

 

 _Imagination,_ he told himself firmly. _Imagination._ Taking two plates out of the cupboard and spooning the cheesy potato and minced beef onto the plates, and adding the vegetables that Jehan had also made, before turning to find that Combeferre had somehow found a bottle of red wine and was pouring it into two glasses.

 

“I hope you don’t mind,” the poet said, smiling, as Courfeyrac set the plates down. “Today, we got lost on the hill, and I think that merits some form of alcohol.”

 

 _I think that merits some form of alcohol._ At this point, Courfeyrac was finding everything that Combeferre said hot. “Sure, sure, alcohol’s good,” he said quickly. “Well, tuck in.”

 

“This looks amazing,” Combeferre said, drawing his plate closer and picking up a fork, and trying not to concentrate on the fact that Courfeyrac had set their plates down on opposite sides of the table. There was even a damn _candlestick_ in between them. “Jehan must be a wizard.”

 

“Well, one of his outbuildings is called the Owlery,” Courfeyrac replied, digging in. “Perhaps he is. Did he tell you something about another person arriving tomorrow?”

 

“Yeah. I wonder who it is?” Combeferre thought aloud, chewing on a forkful of food. “Oh my god, this is fantastic.”

 

“I want to take this pie home with me,” Courfeyrac replied ecstatically. “Damn. I think Jehan might actually have put cannabis in here. There’s no other way it could taste this good.”

 

“Actually, I think there might be some oregano and basil in there. Original.” Combeferre ate thoughtfully. “Some rosemary as well.”

 

Courfeyrac was barely holding it together at this point. “Herbs. I like it.” Gesticulating with his fork, he pointed towards the window behind them, where a light was still on in the Priory. “Is Feuilly still out there? We ought to invite him in.”

 

“I’m not sure. I’m sure he’s got work to do.”

 

“He’s going out in a while with Jehan anyway,” Courfeyrac said contemplatively. “I’m sure he’ll want to get out straight away.”

 

“Wait. What do you mean, with Jehan?” Combeferre asked. “Jehan’s going to visit his sick mother.”

 

“No, Jehan’s going out with – oh.” Courfeyrac suddenly realised, and the two ate in silence for a few minutes.

 

Combeferre was the first to speak up. “We’ve been set up, haven’t we?”

 

“It seems like we have.” Courfeyrac cleared his throat. “Not that I – well, this is awkward.”

 

“Um. Yeah. Awkward.” Combeferre laughed half-heartedly. “I just hope they don’t hear about this at home. It could be quite the scandal.”

 

“Yeah, I’m not sure my teenage fans would take it well.” Courfeyrac shifted his feet under the table, and, finishing his pie, sat back, his hands behind his head. “That was good.”

 

Combeferre suddenly found himself not hungry. “I’m, um, going to go and get some sleep.”

 

“Really? But it’s, like, eight.” Courfeyrac looked up at the clock on the wall, which had, indeed, just struck eight. “Are you sure?”

 

Combeferre _almost_ said no. He was really, really close to closing the small gap between the pair of them and pulling Courfeyrac into a movie-star kiss, and then following through with whatever happened next, because Courfeyrac was wearing _plaid_ and there was no way that that should look so good paired with jeans and wellies and –

 

He jumped up. “Yeah. You know, getting lost saps a lot of precious energy. Lots.”

 

“Does it now.” Courfeyrac looked ( _disappointed?)_ a little sceptical. “Ah, well. Have a good sleep, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

“The morning. Yeah.” Combeferre raised his hand and gave an awkward little wave. “Night.”

 

As soon as Courfeyrac heard the front door of the house shutting, he buried his face in his hands and whispered “ _Fuck.”_ This was going to be a nightmare.

 

Meanwhile, Combeferre, walking back across the yard, was in such a state that he’d forgotten to put his coat on (it was still hanging on a peg in the kitchen) and was turning redder by the minute, he knew. Luckily, it was dark, so there was no chance of Courfeyrac seeing Combeferre’s almost embarrassing expression of disbelief.

 

As soon as he had forced the sticky door to the Stables open, he sat down at his computer, opened it up and began to write feverishly. He didn’t even know what he was writing – it was just a series of random, unintelligible phrases with words copied and pasted everywhere, there was no form, no rhythm, no rhyme – all he knew was that he _had_ to get what he was feeling down on paper or he would explode.

 

**oo**

_“Hey there Delilah, what’s it like in New York City?_

_You’re a thousand miles away but girl tonight you look so pretty_

_Yes you do, Times Square can’t shine as bright as you_

_I swear it’s true…”_

 

Courfeyrac was humming as he plodded across the yard to breakfast. Despite the horrible awkwardness of the night before, he was feeling really quite optimistic about the day ahead, and was _really_ looking forward to murdering Jehan for setting them up. And also to

He’d forgotten about the new person.

Wandering into the kitchen, he saw a different figure standing in front of the sink, examining the cannabis plant. As they turned, Courfeyrac had just enough time to see a flash of bright green eye as the blonde asked, simultaneously imperious and nervous, “Is that cannabis above the sink?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me, everyone.
> 
> Hey - do me a favour and have yourself a super day!


	4. iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final.

“ _Well, I’m finding this all pretty incredible,”_ Grantaire said calmly over the phone. “ _You pick this week of all weeks to go on a writers retreat and find_ two _possible soulmates in two days?”_

“That is exactly what has happened,” Courfeyrac replied in little more than a whisper. After he and this – this _stranger,_ Enjolras – had shown each other their tattoos and exchanged the obligatory remarks, he had beaten a hasty retreat to his room and had immediately rung the first person he could think of. “But what do I do? I – I think I’m in love with Combeferre, but he has no tattoo. And Enjolras has my words on his collarbone. He has _fuck me sideways and call me a cheese string_ on his collarbone. If this wasn’t such a desperate situation, I’d be laughing.”

 _“What’s Enjolras like?”_ Grantaire asked. Courfeyrac rubbed his hair back.

“I don’t know. Short. Blonde. Political. Looks like he’d crucify you for insulting the revolution, that type of thing.”

 _“Oh. One of those.”_ Grantaire sounded curiously disappointed. “ _Well, I think you need to talk to them both. This is just fucking ridiculous.”_

“Can you come out here?” Courfeyrac begged before Grantaire could hang up. “There’s this amazing pub just up the road, it’s really quiet, you’d love Jehan, amazing views to paint, the whole works. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“ _I’m in Glasgow!”_ Grantaire sounded almost annoyed. “ _I can’t just drop everything and –“_

“Combeferre said he knew you!” Courfeyrac interrupted almost desperately. “Marc Combeferre? He knew the story about you, the clock tower and the dinosaur onesie too.”

There was a couple of minutes of silence before Grantaire suddenly swore. “ _Fuck. I’m coming down. See you in five hours.”_ And the line went dead.

Throwing his mobile onto the bed, Courfeyrac went over to the window, and saw, across the yard, Combeferre leaving his room. He would see Enjolras! Enjolras would tell him everything! Courfeyrac couldn’t let that happen, so sprang towards the door and threw it open, shoving his feet into his boots and racing across the yard. And Combeferre was going in through the door, and he was going to be too late, and then –

“-you must be Combeferre. Pleased to meet you, citizen.”

And then Combeferre’s warm voice that Courfeyrac had come to shiver at, saying back “Holy mother of goddamned fuck.”

Charging into the kitchen, Courfeyrac took in the scene. Enjolras, open-mouthed, was rolling up his shirt sleeve to reveal _another_ tattoo in long, cursive script, going right up his forearm, in the shape of Combeferre’s words.

“Okay,” Courfeyrac said loudly as he heavily sat down. “Will someone please talk me through what the hell is going on?”

 

**oo**

“It’s called a trichotomy.” Combeferre had made them all tea, and was now endeavouring to explain to the others what was going on. “It’s much more common than people think. In general, it’s not supposed to be a – a sexual bond, more of a platonic one.”

“So you mean that we three are meant to be best of friends?” Enjolras snorted. “I only met you half an hour ago.”

“I don’t know.” Combeferre held his mug close, almost scared by the speed with which this had happened. “There’s no scientific reason for this to happen.”

Courfeyrac, tired of holding it in, burst out, “But I wanted –.” He stopped. “I wanted to –“

“Oh.” Enjolras’ face suddenly dawned with recognition. “There’s something going on here, isn’t there?” He pointed at Combeferre and Courfeyrac. “I’ve seen it before.”

“What? Us?” Courfeyrac asked, almost shocked that Enjolras had realised his feelings so fast. “I-“

“Yeah,” Combeferre said softly. “There was. And I’ve got to go, guys. I’m sorry.”

“What do you mean?” Courfeyrac asked, his voice almost panicky. “What’s wrong? Ferre?”

“I can’t stay any more. This is all getting too complicated.” Combeferre shook his head. “I’ll stay for one more night and leave tomorrow morning. I came here to write, not get embroiled in this sort of thing.”

“This sort of – Combeferre!” Courfeyrac yelled as the poet exited, before sinking back down. “Fuck. Everything’s been fucked up.”

“Did I do something wrong?” Enjolras asked quietly after a couple of seconds. “You two seemed friendly before.”

“We only met yesterday. And – I think I’m in love with him. And that’s not how it’s supposed to go. And now he’s leaving.” Courfeyrac’s voice dropped again. “I’m in love with him.”

“Well, um.” Enjolras said, when it became clear that Courfeyrac wasn’t going to talk any more. “If you’re in love with him, why don’t you tell him?”

“I’m fairly sure he doesn’t feel the same.” He _couldn’t._ Combeferre was _leaving,_ for Christ’s sake!

Enjolras gave him a look that was half exasperated, half angry. “Are you really that blind?” he asked, before standing up and striding out of the door, leaving Courfeyrac to his own troubled thoughts.

What had Enjolras meant? Combeferre couldn’t feel that way about Courfeyrac. They’d only known each other for a day – Combeferre didn’t even believe in the soulmate bond!

Slowly, he stood up, took the mugs to the sink and dumped them in. They had to talk.

“Combeferre?” he asked a few seconds later, knocking on the door to the Stables. “Combeferre, can we talk?”

He heard footsteps inside, and the door swung open to reveal Combeferre, who looked, for the first time since Courfeyrac had known him, tired. “Come in,” the taller man said, stepping aside to reveal a small, messy kitchenette. The kettle had just been put on. Combeferre pointed at the sofa, so Courfeyrac sat down obediently. Combeferre followed a few seconds later with two mugs of tea, which he put down on top of two coasters on the coffee table.

“What do you want to talk about?” he asked, a lopsided smile playing across his face. “I’m sorry for springing my departure on you. I’d only decided a couple of minutes ago.”

“It’s fine,” Courfeyrac responded automatically, his fingers straying to the loose thread on his trousers that he’d been worrying at all morning. “Look, can I be frank with you?”

“If that’s the name you prefer,” Combeferre said, dead serious, as Courfeyrac hit him – then, his face broke into that gorgeous smile. “But, seriously. What’s going on?”

“Okay.” Courfeyrac looked up. “Well, I’ve never been good at saying these things. People always leave before I get the chance to tell them how much they mean to me. And I’m not letting that happen again.” He took a deep breath and forced himself to look into Combeferre’s eyes. “I know it’s only been a day, but, Combeferre…I’m in love with you.”

It took a few seconds for Combeferre to respond with a little whisper that sounded vaguely like “ _fuck”_ before the poet was grabbing Courfeyrac by the waist and pulling him closer and then they were kissing, a rough kiss that sent tremors all the way down Courfeyrac’s legs, making him let out a small moan because there couldn’t be anything better than this.

As they broke apart, Combeferre was breathing deeply, his face almost ecstatic. “Well.”

“So. That happened. Whatever will we tell the folks?” Courfeyrac joked, raising a laugh from Combeferre before diving in for another kiss, and then Combeferre was pulling Courfeyrac up and onto his lip and his tongue was going everywhere, and everything was heat and love and the sound of their breathing mixed together in the air, before Combeferre pulled away again and gasped a question.

“Bed?”

Courfeyrac could do nothing more than nod helplessly as Combeferre picked him up and carried him towards the bedroom. All he knew was that he had never felt this way before.

This was where he belonged.

 

**oo**

It was nearly two o’clock before the two emerged, both of them feeling…feeling better. This time, they were hand in hand as they walked across the yard.

As they did, two cars pulled up outside the gates almost simultaneously. Enjolras had just emerged from the Priory and was walking over, and had evidently spotted their hands intertwined. He looked like he was just about to call out when Grantaire stepped out of one of the cars, holding a suitcase under one arm and a canvas under the other, and Enjolras’ mouth all but dropped open.

Courfeyrac just barely heard Combeferre whisper “Oh, _shit”_ before Grantaire caught sight of Enjolras and his whole face changed.

Jehan got out of the other car, his face splitting into a giant grin when he saw Combeferre and Courfeyrac holding hands.

Courfeyrac turned to Combeferre for a second. “Ferre, can you get by without my presence for a little while?” He nodded towards Jehan. “There’s something I need to do.” With the gentlest of nods and a familiar smile that already felt like home, Combeferre dropped a kiss to Courfeyrac’s lips – a small kiss with the promise of everything to come. Courfeyrac smiled into it before dropping Combeferre’s hand and taking off sprinting towards Jehan, whose smile slipped from his face as Courfeyrac barrelled towards him.

“Come here, Jehan!” Courfeyrac howled, almost slipping a couple of times. “I’m going to murder you!”

Grantaire, captivated by Enjolras, finally turned and caught onto what was happening, and started howling with laughter as the blonde approached him and Combeferre stood, watching everything with faint amusement etched across his face.

It wasn’t time for him to leave just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for sticking with me!

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a four part work!


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